Designed for Disaster (Manhattan Bossh*les #3)

1. Natasha

1

NATASHA

I f one more person asked for a cookie croissant, I was going to lose my damn mind. People saw one thing trending on TikTok, and suddenly everyone needed it. Whatever happened to the good old-fashioned combo of coffee and a muffin? It’s not like it was a novel idea anyway. Take a croissant, stuff it with cookie dough, and bake. Big deal. Besides, couldn’t people see The Blend was a coffee shop, not a bakery?

“Okay fine,” the girl huffed. “I’ll just take the chocolate croissant then.”

“Good choice.” I plugged in her order quickly. We were absolutely slammed, and I’d already wasted enough time answering her inane questions. I gestured to the debit machine. “Just tap your card there when you’re ready.”

“Wait!” she said. “Are they fresh?”

“Uh…” I glanced at the small pastry display on the counter. I actually didn’t know. I only worked at The Blend a few shifts a week, so I had no idea if the display had been filled this morning or yesterday. “I think so?”

“How fresh?”

“I…Craig?” I waved the shift manager over to deal with pain au chocolat lady—emphasis on pain . There was nothing he loved more than soothing customers. “This lovely lady would like to know how fresh the croissants are,” I said to him before darting to the sink to wash my hands. I towel-dried, then jumped right back into drink prep.

The Blend was usually busy, but from eleven to one, there was no break in between the customers. Everything was go go go as the New York City coffee fiends claimed their midday fix. Hence why I didn’t have time to be directing these wannabe influencers to bakeries all over the city. I was here to serve coffee, not hand out travel advice. But the way I was being solicited today, I was starting to wonder if I had the words Google Maps tattooed across my forehead.

“Excuse me?”

I looked over my shoulder from my place in front of the espresso machine. A woman hovered at the end of the counter, cutting through a line of customers waiting on orders.

“You’re out of cinnamon,” she said. “Over on the self-serve bar.”

“One second,” I called out as I frothed milk for the top of a chai latte. I topped up the to-go chai cup with milky foam and slammed a lid on. No time for fancy latte art today.

I turned around and handed the order to a balding man that didn’t bother to take his eyes off his phone as he thrust his hand in my direction. “Have a good one,” I muttered, too tired to muster up any enthusiasm. I yawned for what felt like the hundredth time since starting my shift.

“Up late last night, Tash?” Eddie asked as he passed me, his brow piercings reflecting the lights overhead.

“The past couple of nights,” I admitted, putting a small to-go cup down on the counter. “Small Earl Grey with oat milk,” I called.

Eddie waggled his brows in my direction. “Oh yeah?”

“Not like that,” I corrected him. I wished that was the reason, but I barely had enough time to fit in my multiple part-time jobs right now. Romantic entanglements were not on the agenda. “I’m working on a commissioned furniture piece, and it’s taking forever.” Mostly because I was waiting for backordered materials that put me behind schedule.

“Oh, nice—the commission part, I mean.”

“It is nice. Or it will be. When the piece is done and delivered.”

“And you get that sweet, sweet paycheck?”

I laughed. “You know I’m in it for more than the money, right?” Designing furniture was my passion.

“Babe, we’re all in it for the money.”

“Yeah, okay. True.” It would be nice to make enough off my furniture to not need these side hustles anymore. But that dream was still a long way off. And for now, even with the side hustles, I was barely making ends meet. I could really use this payment to help with rent, which meant I couldn’t deliver late.

“The cinnamon?” came a frustrated voice.

“Right!” I said, darting for a new shaker under the counter. I handed it off to the woman still standing at the end of the counter. “Here. Sorry about the wait.”

She moved to the side, to the tall café table that had the big DO NOT USE sign on it.

“No, not there!” I called, leaning across the counter. I gestured to the sign. It had big bold letters and everything. Why did people keep missing it?

The table legs were bolted to the ground, so we couldn’t just move it, but the screw that held the top fixed in place had popped out, and we’d yet to find a replacement. That meant any weight put on the top, especially near the edge, made the whole top tilt.

“I swear it’s like people can’t read today,” I said.

Eddie smirked. “I say we just let them learn from their own stupidity.”

“But that would mean we’d have to remake their drinks when they inevitably end up on the floor. And break out the mop.”

Eddie sighed. “And Craig would get involved and probably make us apologize on our hands and knees.”

I hummed in agreement. Craig took “the customer is always right” to cartoonish extremes. He had his staff’s back exactly zero percent.

“Someone needs to bus the tables,” Craig said, popping up like a gremlin, as if we’d summoned him by saying his name. “We’re running out of seating.”

I caught Eddie’s eye. “I’m on it,” I called over my shoulder, grabbing a cloth. “You good here?”

Eddie nodded, darting off to take another order.

I headed around to the front, wiping crumbs and coffee stains off tables and gathering up dirty dishes. A set of cups rattled in my hand as I moved across The Blend, avoiding elbows and trying not to trip over my own tired feet.

“I don’t see why you can’t just talk to her,” a gruff, no-nonsense voice snapped close by.

I looked up from the table I was wiping down and spotted a striking figure of a man walking toward me from the counter, a steaming cup of coffee in his hand. He was tall, broad shoulders easily cutting a path between the customers. He had a phone pressed to his ear, and judging by the way his lip curled, he disliked whatever the person on the other end was saying.

“Will you stop asking about the business? That’s not why I reached out.” He huffed, wedging the phone between his ear and shoulder long enough to pinch the bridge of his nose, showing off the flashy Rolex on his wrist. “Look. Just talk to…I’m not discussing that right now. Why are you even bringing it up?”

I averted my gaze as he drew closer, trying not to make it obvious I was eavesdropping.

“Enough, Dad!” he snapped. “This isn’t about the company. Would you just talk to her already?”

I stiffened, unsettled by the way he was apparently speaking to his father.

“You’re such a goddamn asshole, you know that?”

Scratch that. The way he was yelling at his father. A familiar, wretched hurt bubbled in my chest, and I rubbed at the spot between my ribs. What I wouldn’t give to have my father around again, and here this jerk was taking his parent for granted. Part of me wanted to smack his smug face and demand that he apologize.

The man went stalking past me, right toward the off-limits table.

Not again , I thought, surging forward.

“Sir? The sign! Please don’t use that table,” I said, waving to get his attention when he didn’t respond to what I’d said. I started jogging to intercept him, catching his arm. My hand wrapped around a firm bicep. “Sir!”

He wheeled around, staring me down with the most intense eyes I’d ever seen. “Excuse me,” he said sharply. “Can you not see I’m in the middle of a phone call? Do you not know basic manners?”

Wow, really? If this was a cartoon, steam would have come out of his ears. But if we were in a cartoon, I’d also be able to hit this obnoxious Coffeezilla over the head with a rubber hammer. Sadly, this was real life, so I clamped down on my retort and instead said, “This table is actually out of order because?—”

“I’m still talking here,” he growled, shaking the phone at me and completely ignoring every word out of my mouth. He was tall, and I had to straighten to my full height to stop him from towering over me. His eyes were so dark they were almost completely black. The same color as the scruff that covered his cheeks and jaw. And what a jawline. A statue of Adonis would take notes. But it was his brows, so expressive and sharp, that held my attention as he hissed, “What did you not understand about my previous sentence?”

Fine then. I released his arm, and he turned away from me. What did I care about helping some obnoxious beast who treated everyone like shit?

He hung up abruptly, sat on the tall bar stool, and put his coffee cup down, sans lid. As I’d expected, it immediately caused the top of the table to tip. Coffee cascaded over the edge of the table and into his lap like a caffeine-infused waterfall.

It was glorious. For me, anyway. He was less than pleased.

“Damnit!” he shouted, jumping up and trying to get out of the way as the drink soaked into his jeans. I sighed, a small laugh escaping the back of my throat. He didn’t seem to be hurt, thankfully, more just furious at the turn of events. “Are you laughing?” he snapped, glaring at me.

I couldn’t help it. This was exactly what I’d spent all morning barely managing to avoid, and the fact that this hot shot ended my streak was kind of hilarious. Besides, it couldn’t have happened to a nicer guy.

“Why didn’t you try to stop me?” he continued.

“What do you think I was trying to do before? You know, when you accused me of not having manners?” I asked. “You were apparently too busy yelling at your dad and being a jackass to listen to me.”

“You have no idea what you’re talking about,” he said. “You’re also the worst waitress ever. Like is this not the bare minimum of your job description? Keep the coffee in the cups?”

I could tell I’d hit a nerve with the dad comment. He’d gone from coffezilla to table tyrant in a matter of three seconds. “Once the coffee is in your hand, it’s your problem. I didn’t spill it on you. You spilled it on yourself by being too high-and-mighty to read the clearly posted sign . Maybe if you weren’t so busy auditioning for Angry Rich Guy of the Year, you’d pay more attention to your surroundings.”

“I don’t even know how this coffee shop stays open with you working here.”

“With charm and a whole lotta coffee spills, apparently.” I glanced up at him and that douchey scowl, distracted for a second by those all-consuming dark eyes. Why were the hot ones always mega assholes? I turned away from him.

“Where are you going?” he demanded.

“Back to work,” I said. “What? Did you expect me to just stand here and listen to you have a tantrum?”

“A tantrum?”

“Yes. That’s exactly what this is. Actually wait, no. It’s more of an mantrum.”

“A mantrum?”

“A temper tantrum thrown by a man.”

“I understood what you meant,” he growled through his teeth.

“Good. And frankly, I don’t know why you’re complaining when you brought this on yourself. You ignored the sign. And you ignored me when I tried to warn you. Those were the adult decisions you made. You should just be glad you spent so much time arguing on the phone that your coffee had cooled down enough that you didn’t burn yourself.”

“Would I receive more sympathy if I had actually injured myself?”

“From me? No. You can take your pretty-boy self and try down the street, though. The preschool might take pity on you. Put your drink in a sippy cup.”

“Natasha!” I whirled around. Craig stood there, his eyes so wide they might bug out of his head. “What are you doing?”

“I’m…” I looked over my shoulder. “Cleaning up the trash.”

“You’re making a scene. And being rude to The Blend’s customers.”

One customer , I wanted to point out—along with the fact that he was being just as rude. But none of that would matter to Craig.

“Go get your things. I think it’s time for you to clock out.”

I froze, my stomach dropping. I’d figured I might get yelled at for not treating our oh-so-sacred customers with the respect Craig thought they deserved. But this? Was he punishing me by making me clock out early and lose half a day’s pay, or was he…No, he couldn’t be…

“Craig?”

“Don’t make this a bigger scene than it already is,” he said under his breath.

I felt like he’d punched me right in the gut. My heart slammed against my ribs. Had he just fired me?

“You’ll receive your last paycheck at the end of the week,” Craig said, answering any lingering doubts I might have had.

Fuck!

I could practically feel the table tyrant smirking behind me. But the only thing I could think about was how the hell I was going to pay my rent at the end of the month.